


What Do We Say to the God of Death?

by DreamerInSilico



Series: Splinters [5]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Deadfire, Friendship, Gen, Non-Sexual Intimacy, we mostly say "really? again? please leave me alone i'm busy"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico
Summary: Prompt from tumblr: "You need to be more careful."Acantha is *very* careful, or at least, she used to be.
Relationships: Aloth Corfiser & Female Watcher, Aloth Corfiser & The Watcher
Series: Splinters [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/953394
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	What Do We Say to the God of Death?

**Author's Note:**

> If you're not one of the small handful of people who are probably cranky at me for falling head-first into a new fandom and leaving my longfic WIP to languish, here's some probably-relevant info:
> 
> \- Acantha is a Chanter who uses bows and wears very light armor.
> 
> \- Aedyran is her third language, the first being Ordhjóma (as she is a pale elf from the White). The structural quirks in her speech are something I developed long before Deadfire came out, so they probably aren't "realistic," but since I don't think any of us have Josh Sawyer's conlang bible to reference I'm just going with it.

“You need t’be more careful, Watcher,” Xoti clucks as she patches Acantha up. Her magic is warmth and tingling and the barest suggestion of light, and leaves no trace of a scar, but it can’t do anything about the blood ( _ too much blood, she’s light-headed _ ) that soaks Acantha’s ruined shirt. To Acantha’s profound displeasure, it’s also made its way into one of her braids. Fresh water is a precious commodity aboard a ship, but she will not be washing her hair in the sea.

The admonition from Xoti is a light one, but Aloth is giving her a troubled look from the sidelines. “Yes, indeed you do.”

Acantha sighs and glances aside. He knows her too damned well. 

Later, when her hair is satisfactorily clean of blood (she can still smell it, faintly, but that is preferable to anything she might use to cover the smell up) and he is companionably re-braiding it for her, he speaks up again. “What happened, today, in the fight?” 

She knows what he means, but is inclined to be contrary, at the moment. “A raider stuck her sabre in me.”

Aloth makes the noise through his nose that means “Why are you like this?” and she finds herself smirking faintly, albeit with bitterness. 

“You didn’t even need to be on their ship,” he points out.

“Saw an opportunity; took it.”

He is quiet for a moment, hands moving methodically in her damp hair. It would normally be soothing, but they’re obviously going to have this conversation now. She knows, on some level, that she probably needs to, but the stubborn creature in her wants to fight it. 

“You’ve… been doing that more and more lately.” Aloth clears his throat. He’s trying to be tactful. Nowadays she understands it as an instinct and a personal need of his, rather than an active repudiation of her preference to just get to the point, so she just waits for him to get there on his own, rather than prodding at him. “Taking… _ risky _ opportunities.”

Acantha has historically been very much like Aloth himself in a fight - far more comfortable keeping her distance, letting the people who wear real armor get up close and personal with their opponents. They can both be plenty effective from afar. But lately, it’s as though there is a cloud of Old Vailian mosquitos in her head, buzzing between her ears and swimming around in her blood, making her itch. The immediacy of a knife-edged situation drowns them out, a little. 

It’s always worse right after one of her little episodes with Berath, and whichever other gods feel like dropping in to be condescending that day. 

“Snatched me back from the Wheel, did Berath,” she points out sardonically. “I am an  _ investment _ .” 

She can’t see Aloth pursing his lips, but she knows he’s doing it. “Did they ever tell you they would do it again?” 

“No,” she admits. (She gives it roughly even odds, at least for one occasion of her getting herself killed, depending on the level of recklessness that precipitated it. Part of her almost wants to find out.)

“They called you again recently, didn’t they?” he asks, with a tone of almost gentle attentiveness. 

A sigh. “Yes. Two nights past.”

He takes the silver comb to another section of her hair, and she lets her eyelids flutter shut for a moment in comfort at the teeth of it against her scalp. “Tell me about it, if you want to.”

She finds that, surprisingly, she does.


End file.
